This entire time, he—what? Watched me? Wanted to be near me? Wanted me to see him?
It was like everything tilted sideways.
Maybe that was why he never let anyone close.
Maybe that was why every time I tried to step forward, he shoved harder, said crueller things, because if I got too close, he would have to admit it, to me, to himself.
And maybe that was why he looked so broken now, like caring about me was something that was killing him and keeping him alive at the same time.
I hated that realisation.
I hated the warmth crawling up my throat; the ache blooming in my chest.
Because I shouldn’t feel bad for him. I shouldn’t want to reach out. But all I could think was—
If he felt even a fraction of what I felt right now, then maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the monster I thought he was.
Maybe he was just… human.
Terrified. Messy. And trying, failing, but still trying, to love in the only broken way he knew how.
But it still hurts. A lot.
“Y-you—” I choked out, lips trembling, “are like t-them.”
The words came out cracked, raw through the air like glass about to break. His face fell. Just collapsed. Like the ground had been ripped out from under him.
I pushed myself up, my arm screamed, my chest ached, but I didn’t care. I just needed to leave. To get away before my head started spinning again, before I started thinking about him as anything but the monster who broke me.
But the moment I tried to move past him, his hand shot out, not rough, not hard, just a desperate, shaking grip around my wrist.
“Aurora, please—”
I froze.
He was still on the floor.
Still soaked.
And when I looked down, he wasn’t standing this time. He was kneeling.
“Don’t go,” he said, voice cracking. “Please. Don’t leave like this. I’m not—I’m not them.”
I tried to pull my arm back, but he wouldn’t let go. Not tight, not painful, just holding on as if he let go, I’d disappear.
“Let me make sure you’re okay,” he whispered. “Let me—just—let me watch. Let me see you breathe, just for a little longer.”
His voice broke halfway through, breath catching in his throat. “I can’t stop seeing it. You under that water. You not moving. I can’t—I can’t go through that again.”
I looked down at him, at this boy, this man who once terrified me, now on his knees, pleading as if the air hurt to breathe.
He didn’t look powerful.
He didn’t look like the Joshua who barked orders and glared until people vanished from his path.
He looked… ruined.
“Please,” he said again, quieter this time. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to talk to me. Just stay. So I can see that you’re okay.”
